


In which Stiles is right, Scott has a meltdown, and Dean is no match for a Vulcan

by crumblingtower



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Tribbles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crumblingtower/pseuds/crumblingtower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tribbles have taken over Beacon Hills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Stiles is right, Scott has a meltdown, and Dean is no match for a Vulcan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ultrageekatlarge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultrageekatlarge/gifts).



> Notes: Pre-“Teen Wolf” Stiles and Scott, season 1 Sam and Dean, complete disregard of the Star Trek timeline. I finally just decided to break it into two chapters. Here’s the first half for my friend ultrageekatlarge (check out her stuff! it's brilliant!), and I promise the rest is in the works. I also have no beta and no willpower to edit myself, so it’s probably terrible. 
> 
> Post-Note: This is not my main account. I created this one to spare my friend the horrifying slash I have written. 
> 
> Original prompt: A Teen Wolf/Supernatural crossover. I added in the Star Trek.

“That is _not_ a cat,” Scott said, motioning to the little ball of brown fluff lounging in Stiles’ arms. Stiles had found the creature near a dumpster outside of Beacon Hills High school, and had adopted and named it in under an hour. Despite its complete lack of limbs or discernible face, Stiles seemed completely content in calling it a cat and treated it as if nothing was amiss.

“Yes he is! Don’t listen to him, Mr. Cuddles.”

“Does it even have ears?”

“Obviously, Scott,” Stiles looked down at Mr. Cuddles, discretely turning it over and running a hand through its thick fur, “they are just… very… tiny.”

“Is it purring?” Scott looked disgusted.

“I told you it was a cat!”

\--

Stiles appeared at Scott’s door early the next morning, grinning manically and clutching three of the hairy things protectively in his arms.

“Look, mama Cuddles had kittens!”

“It was _pregnant?_ ”

“I guess so.”

“HOW DOES THAT EVEN WORK?”

“Don’t question the miracle of life, Scott.”

“Jesus Christ.”

\--

Exactly twelve hours later, Scott received a phone call from one very distressed Stiles.

“Oh, thank God,” Stiles said right when Scott pressed the receiver to his year, “Dude… you need to get over here _now_.”

“Why? What is it?”

“Something is terribly wrong,” he spoke quietly, a hint of fear in his voice, “They… Scott… I don’t think these are cats.”

“What gave it away? Maybe the fact that they _look nothing like cats_?”

“There are three dozen of them in my room, man.”

“…”

“ _I think they are freaking aliens.”_

\--

“Hey, check this out.”

Dean wandered over to the hotel table Sam was using as a makeshift desk and leaned over his shoulder, inspecting the article pulled up on the laptop. The headline read _Beacon Hills Overrun by Mutated Cats._ Below the headline was a large picture of what appeared to be a typical suburban home. The lawn, however, was mountained with thousands of the supposed mutated cats. On the edge of the picture another home was visible, their lawn in a similar state.

“What the hell?”

“Yeah, looks like our kind of thing.”

“Are you sure? Might be some freaky genetic experiment gone wrong.”

“Either way, if we’re going to keep taking cases while dad’s missing, this is as good of a lead as any.” Sam sighed, closing his laptop and shoving it into his pack.

“Okay, fine. Where we going?” Dean rubbed the back of his neck, raising his eyebrows at Sam.

“California,” Sam said flatly. Dean grinned widely, nudging Sam with his elbow.

“Sweet. California chicks.”

“Shut up, Dean.”

\--

When the two Winchesters finally reached Beacon Hills, California, the town was in chaos. The hairy creatures had spread evenly over every outside nook and had even started to invade homes and businesses. The invasion had brought Beacon Hills to a near standstill, forcing residents to huddle inside or even take up residence in shelters if your neighborhood was particularly affected. The creatures hadn’t caused any direct harm, though there had been a few traffic incidents and every local food outlet had been raided by droves of them.

Sam and Dean, forced to travel on foot or risk squashing and potentially angering the horde with the impala, walked directly to the county police station, dressed in FBI getup. They discovered an extremely harried and confused Sheriff.

“Thanks for taking the time to speak with us, Sheriff Stilinski.”

“No problem, guys. I already told the FBI all that I know, though.” Sam had the decency to look sheepish, but Dean barged forward.

“Can you explain to us how this started?”   
  
“Well, erm…” Sheriff Stilinski glanced at the floor, giving Sam and Dean a moment to share a look, “I received a call from my son three days ago while I was at work.”

“Your son?”

“Yes, my son Stiles. He’s usually a, uh, good kid,” He paused, shaking his head, “Not that he’s done anything- ah, yeah, anyway. I got call from him. He said there were these things… the mutated cats… and that they had taken over our house.”

Sam nodded thoughtfully, and Dean just furrowed his brow and waited for the Sheriff to continue.  
  
“So I took a squad car down to see him, and I knew something was up right when I pulled in. Thousands of them.” He looked and Sam and Dean intently, shaking his head in disbelief. “ _They had pushed out the windows and overflowed onto the lawn._ ”

“…Interesting,” Sam said finally, “Does your son know where they came from?”

Sheriff Stilinski shook his head. “He was at school the whole day, and they were there we he got back.”

“Do you mind if we talk to Stiles?” Dean pressed, hoping the kid had more information than he’d given to his dad.

“Uh, sure. He should be with his friend. I’ll call him in--“   
  
“No, that’s fine,” Dean interrupted, giving Stilinski a placating smile, “We’ll go to him. Where does this friend live?”

\--

“This is insane,” Scott whispered, holding the curtains to the kitchen window open and staring out. After Mr. Stilinski had called in backup, the house had been cleared of the furry things and the broken windows had been boarded shut. Stiles’ dad had questioned the two relentlessly, but both were completely baffled. They didn’t mention that Stiles had brought the first one home, but Scott figured that wasn’t _exactly_ essential information. What mattered was that there was a completely rational explanation for this and that _they were definitely not freaking aliens._

Scott felt an uncomfortable lurch in his stomach at the thought. His mind had already conjured up several scenarios of extraterrestrial invasions, and each had ended with death by a gaping mouthed, viper fanged puffball latching onto an unprotected limb.

They had bolted the doors shut, but some of the more daring creatures sat flush against the frame of the house, piling up near windows so that the one who sat on top could peer sightlessly into their home and make that horrid cooing noise against the glass. Each time Scott looked out the kitchen window, he almost expected a mob of them to be wielding long knives or AK-47s, but Stiles had already _reassured_ him that they were too small to do either. Maybe pocket knives, then.

Stiles was pacing back and forth through the kitchen, his face one of intense concentration.  Occasionally he would stop and stare down at a small whiteboard he had put on the kitchen table, attempting to decipher his own scribbled ideas and theories. Written boldly at the top of the board was _Codename Balls_ , and three major headers were bulleted below that: _Where do the Balls come from?_ What, if any, _purpose do the Balls have? Are the Balls dangerous?_

Stiles had put a big “NO” below the last header, even though Scott tried to tell him that the Balls were likely just biding their time like Russian sleeper agents. If Scott had to guess, he’d say that the Balls were actually self-replicating robot bombs set to go off when, somewhere far away from here, a big red button was pressed. Maybe someone was going to take Beacon Hills hostage. He hoped that the federal government had enough money to _not_ leave the city a smoking crater.

The sound of the doorbell made them both jump, but Stiles recovered quickly and rushed over to yank the door open. Standing in a pile of the Balls, two sharply dressed young men pulled out badges from the breast pocket and flashed them at Stiles.

“Hello,” the shorter of the two started with a forced smile, “We’re here to ask you a few questions.”


End file.
